


Can't You See? I am Delusional with Love, I am Delusional with Love

by peachwentz



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Kissing, Love Confession, M/M, brief and implied trohley, it's only rated teen bc of swearing, mention of drugs, tiny van days peterick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachwentz/pseuds/peachwentz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without explaining himself, Patrick wriggled out of Pete's grasp, shimmied over to the mat that was coming up (the cover for their illicit substance and condom storage), and started carving into the gray plastic with the knife.</p>
<p>When he drew back, Pete laughed at the little "P.S. + P.L." surrounded by a heart. It was such a sweet gesture; so childish and innocent. It made his stomach swirl around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't You See? I am Delusional with Love, I am Delusional with Love

**Author's Note:**

> OK THIS IS UNEDITED AND PROBABLY SHITTY BUT *shrugs*

When ten or fifteen years had passed by, Febreeze would never smell the same; especially the cheap Tropical Sunset.

Tropical Sunset stained the gray seats, especially the one with the tear in the side. The bottle of fragranced chemicals saturated the van; the van that ran only with the heat on, the van that carried Pete and his suitcase of broken dreams. The van that carried Patrick, golden star Patrick; Patrick who was going to climb to the top of the world and blind its inhabitants with his glowing smile and porcelain skin.

Pete had opted out of sleeping on one of the two rows of seats, and chose the floor, which smelled not of Tropical Sunset, but of spilled Pepsi and what could possibly be an old, estranged McMuffin. The van was probably 600 degrees, or, somewhere near it. On the left side, the side with the dingy rose stenciled on the side, there was a hole rusting out in the lower corner of the door, which provided the smallest breath of fresh air; air that had yet to be soaked in cheap air freshener.

The black pavement had been racing alongside the old, beat up Ford for hours. Occasionally it would stumble, when Pete closed his eyes, or when Patrick pushed him with his foot to check if he was still awake. Sweat rolled down the bassist's temple, and even that probably smelled like Tropical Sunset.

"Is there like, a 7-Eleven anywhere?"

Andy turned around from the passenger seat. "If you gotta piss, there's a Gatorade bottle under Joe."

Pete groaned. Gas prices were combating their unnecessary stops, even if it was for something like a bathroom break.

"No, need some air con. I've forgotten what being a human feels like."

From the first row of seats directly beside Pete, Patrick laughed. It made Pete smile, mostly because the squishy seventeen year old was unbreakable and usually didn't laugh at his stupid remarks.

For some reason, Patrick looked more beautiful than usual. His hair was sticking to his forehead in such a way, in such a specific and beautiful way. Pete's heart leapt up to his throat. The younger boy's eyes were slightly red from lack of sleep, and there were little spots of sweat on the underside of his arms on the fabric of his shirt. The irrefutable heart shape of his lips looked more defined than usual; the color seemed deeper, and Pete had to roll over and press his nose into the rusted out hole to breathe fresh air and get his mind away from the chalk-white jailbait a foot away.The Tropical Sunset was starting to get him.

"I know there's something, fuckin' pull over! I'm hungry," Pete whined like a child.

The van was silent for a minute until Andy sighed audibly. "There's an Arby's in a mile. Little Hurley would appreciate some curly fries," He declared, patting his stomach with a grin. Patrick giggled at that lame joke, too.

Pete smiled and sat up, leaning against the door of the van. On nights they were especially tired, they used to joke that, " _Maybe the doors will fly off and Wentz will break all his ribs on the highway falling out, then he'd have a reason to cry_ ". It always made the bassist laugh.

The band's lead singer then proceeded to flop rather unceremoniously onto the van floor, a leg over Pete's, and Pete's heart threw itself into the back of his throat for probably the seventh time in the span of ten seconds. Looking at Patrick was like walking along the glass cases of thousand dollar diamond masterpieces at Tiffany's; beautiful, out of reach.

It wasn't even a secret that Pete was jaw-droppingly in love with Patrick, because he said it every other time he decided to wake up from a rare nap. The seventeen year old always had the same sort of response; either a snort, a groan, or a sigh of, " _You're scaring me. I almost think you're serious, man._ "

"Ouch, you dick!" Pete whined when the guitarist rolled over and their hip bones scraped.

Patrick just giggled and readjusted his trucker hat. It was a generic one, sort of dingy looking, sporting an emblem for a mom and pop sort of cafe down up on the north edge of the city. The thought of Chicago made Pete's heart throb out of sync with his blood flow. He wanted to go back to Illinois, to take Patrick to his parents' house and live with him up in his attic-lair. He wanted to sleep on the same bed, to share his twin sized mattress and admire that coppery hair every morning.

Except, not only did Patrick appear to be uninterested in Pete, not to mention the male species as a whole, he seemed to almost be repulsed by the bassist. Although, nothing could've been further from the truth. At night, when Pete would fall asleep earlier than everyone else because of exhaustion, Patrick would lay there and watch him. His hair looked different when he slept than when he was awake. It poked out in several directions, his mouth was usually parted, and clear stream of drool could be seen on the corner of his lips. To Patrick, something like that belonged beside the Mona Lisa. To Pete, Patrick needed to be framed in the Smithsonian, near the Heart of the Ocean.

"How about the fuckin' Arby's?" The bassist complained, using his hip to combat Patrick, who seemed hellbent on being as incessantly pesky as possible. He was rolling up against Pete, rolling so he was on top of the him and their hips jabbed each other, squirming so his knees and elbows dug into Pete in a way just past being annoying.

"What the fuck?!"

Patrick said nothing, just smirked and head butted Pete's shoulder.

"Need...N-Need roast beef," The oldest in the band whined theatrically.

"Shut up! We're almost there," Joe yelled from the driver's seat.

One of the floor mats was loose from its position of being anchored into the van with a nail, and under it was a baggie of bud, accommodated by a lighter with the Eye of Sauron on the front face. Pete considered swallowing the stash so Joe would have to smoke pot that had passed through his gastrointestinal tract, but decided against it when Patrick wriggled into the bassist's spot perched directly in front of the door's rust-hole. Pete groaned, and jostled Patrick's shoulder with his own.

The seventeen year old seemed frisky and childish; for once not minding that he was lying next to Pete of his own free will. It was mildly concerning. "You smell good." Patrick proceeded to nuzzle obviously against Pete's chest.

"What?"

"You. Smell. Good. For someone who hasn't showered in four fucking days," The guitarist teased.

"I think the Febreeze has turned your brain into Tropical Sunset scented mush," Pete snorted, although quite unable to suppress his grin.

Andy, from his place next to Joe (he'd since taken up using the driver's shoulder as a pillow, and the sound of smacking kissy lips was unmistakable) let out a soft groan, which in turn, caused the second guitarist to groan.

"I'm going to throw up," Joe declared.

At first, Pete thought he could be serious, which was just more fodder for his campaign to pit stop at Arby's. Then he realized Joe was referring to him, to him and _Patrick_.

It was strange, mostly because the most well-known running joke in the band was Patrick being completely unable to stand Pete in every way, and then, there they were, damn near _cuddling_.

The squishy boy's head was pressed into the soft space between Pete's bicep and his chest; a place made completely of muscle, and it was the most foreign sight.

"Trick, are you okay?"

No reply came from Patrick, but the van jerked a bit, and Joe yelled profanities at some douche out his window. Then, the van stopped, Andy and Joe kissed for what seemed like two thousandth time in the span of an hour, and the curly haired kid turned around.

"Arby's. We're leaving in 20," He announced.

Excited, Pete went to sit up, but Patrick made a noise like an upset kitten.

"Jus' wait...Two more minutes," He whined.

Pete made a face. His heart was beating so hard it was impossible to ignore, and he knew Patrick could hear it. His brain was a swirling, soupy caldron of lust and of infatuation, and his eyes were amber wildfires.

Joe snorted, exited the van, and took Andy's hand once the drummer had done the same. They walked into the shitty fast food place, presumably to feed each other curly fries and maybe share a quick fuck in the bathroom.

"Like you a lot," Patrick murmured, almost too quiet to be heard.

"You what?" Pete was in a glassy state of disbelief. First, there was no way Patrick _like liked_ him, and second, Joe had probably put him up to this entire shenanigan. The fumes of the Tropical Sunset to make up for illegal substance smoking, and the "man sweat" from four broke dudes was making Pete's eyes water.

"I _said_ , I like you a lot. I-I...Never knew how to say it," Patrick repeated, a little louder than before.

Giddy, akin to a thirteen year old girl being kissed for the first time, Pete grinned. He couldn't help it. "What are you on about?" He asked through his bright beaming.

Patrick shoved the bassist's shoulder playfully, then shook his head. "I like you! Okay? I think about you at night and accidentally on purpose snuggle closer, and I hate it, because you're a dirty old man."

Pete laughed, and brazenly decided to sit up. Without thinking, the older boy snatched Patrick's face up, and then, their mouths were touching. All of the tension melted away into a delicious cotton-candy-colored haze; comfortable and sweet.

Patrick's mouth was softer than Pete could've ever imagined, and one of his hands pressed down on the side of the squishy boy's thigh. Everything about the situation had been so highly anticipated, that when Pete pulled away, he couldn't resist touching his bottom lip with the tips of his fingers.

"I like you a lot, too. But you're like, just a little kid," He teased, which made Patrick whine.

"Gimme your pocket knife."

With a quizzical expression, the bassist fished his little blue butterfly knife from his pocket. He found it in a pawn shop when he was 13, and swiped it from the shelf. Without explaining himself, Patrick wriggled out of Pete's grasp, shimmied over to the mat that was coming up (the cover for their illicit substance and condom storage), and started carving into the gray plastic with the knife.

When he drew back, Pete laughed at the little " _P.S. + P.L._ " surrounded by a heart. It was such a sweet gesture; so childish and innocent. It made his stomach swirl around.

"Why Peter Lewis?" The older boy asked, touching Patrick's cheekbone as delicate as he could.

"'Cause," Patrick giggled. "Peter Wentz is an accomplished lawyer, you're just a gross scene kid who can't taint your last name, so you're Peter Lewis."

Again, Pete laughed, but before he could make any sort of defense or rebuttal, his mouth was back on Patrick's. And for once, the smell of Tropical Sunset wasn't so bad.


End file.
